


As Autumn Leaves Do Fall

by alexipyretic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:26:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexipyretic/pseuds/alexipyretic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fall settles into Dean's bones, and his eyes begin to linger. It's only a matter of watching the seasons pass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Autumn Leaves Do Fall

It’s October and the wind is like ice, north bound gusts cutting through frigid air and you wonder, why couldn’t it have been Texas this time, instead of Maine? It’s autumn and it’s crisp, with golden streaks of light bursting through the gaps between the trees that growing wider by the minute as the leaves cascade down, little piles of vibrant death in their hues of mahogany and amber. The shirt you wear is cotton, plaid and too worn and not nearly enough warmth, but journey out into the cool air you must, and so you do, hand on your collar to pull it closed, because it’s not worth the trouble of buttoning it. One step, two, the crunch of leaves and then—halt—eyes, fixed on a single spot, the goal with which you’d left the house to begin with, but you can’t remember the why or the when, and even the how is only answered by the feet on the steps, stopped in their tracks. 

Skin. It’s October and the wind is like ice, but all you see is skin and it’s much too cold for skin, bare and exposed and covered in a thin sheen of glistening sweat. Skin smoother than the feel of the woman you left in the bar three nights past, not quite as soft but a thousand times silkier, like the difference between silk and a cheap canvas. You know this because you’ve felt it beneath your fingers more times than you can count and all the same it’s not enough; how can it be once you’ve had that first touch, and nothing is ever able to measure up after that? You see skin and it’s tan with that glittering sheen beneath the autumn sun, and it’s stretched taut over muscles you swear on your mother’s soul weren’t there the day before when you’d slipped into bed at half past four, an arm curled around a boyish waist that doesn’t look half as boyish now. It’s a narrow waist above angular hips, but why waste a gaze on even that when there’s the barest hint of tender flesh exposed as he bends down, rake in hand, the flesh that curves just before disappearing beneath the faded denim that you’d worn not two years back yet. Fourteen, you mutter, fourteen and half a man. Half a man with shaggy hair and a bare back to match bare trees, and the hint of bare ass that makes another man want, for such is the effect of skin.

You want. You want plush and rosy lips against the small of muscled back. You want hands rough as sandpaper on sinewy frame, complete with the harsh scratch of nails across the pectorals that developed overnight. You want tongue on neck and fingers on bony, angular hips, and you want the scent of sweat and lurid leaves to meld with your own fragrance: salt, leather, whiskey, blood, iron, gasoline, ashes, brimstone—brimstone, you’re going to burn for this, even if you don’t know the when or how or really even all of the why, just the where and the where is hell, and hell is home. The stench of brimstone is in the air and the taste of blood is on your lips because you bit them, you bit them because you can smell hell and taste sin and you can feel your hand on denim, because your hand is off your collar, your hand is on your jeans, palm flat and wide and open and rubbing over certain hardness with your eyes on purity. Purity has taken the form of half a man of virtue, and half a child of sin, and you want.

Guilt—it should have kicked in long before now but it hasn’t and you’re damned and you know it but the thought doesn’t strike home until well after the shock, the shock being from the sudden grip on your shoulder, the one that makes you whirl around in a silent defense, hands raised to block and strike. The fear should subside when your eyes meet his, and you know it’s just your father, it’s just Daddy, good Daddy. The fear does not subside. The trepidation is mounting even as you lower your fists, let a soft sigh fall from your mouth right past the plush and rosy lips that are not pressed against the small of muscled back. The dread is the worst of it, the slowly building tension when Daddy doesn’t let you go, and your shoulder’s caught between his thumb and forefinger, a barely there grip and it’s as if he’s got talons digging in four inches deep. Your tongue is in your mouth and it is not on Purity’s neck, but by all the angels in Heaven above, Daddy doesn’t need the proof. Daddy knows and the guilt strikes then, it strikes and you’re doubling over before the physical blow even makes contact with your stomach, forcing out a gasp as you force down a scream. 

You deserved that. You deserved it and Daddy’s not going to apologize, and you don’t want him to. He hasn’t said a word and neither have you, but he’s let go of your shoulder because you’re on the ground, knocked on your back because you let yourself fall, and he’s extending a hand to help you up so you take it. You take it and you rise, punished for your sacrilege, and it’s not absolution or forgiveness but it will have to do. There is sorrow in Daddy’s eyes, and you don’t remember his arms opening any more than you remember how you got to this point but suddenly you’re in them, and he’s crushing your stubbled face against his chest and he’s cupping your cheek with his palm. He holds you in his arms and you breathe, and he breathes but it comes with words, the kind you know you won’t ever forget no matter how hard you try.

“Never, Dean. Never again or you’ll be gone. Not Sammy.” 

The “yes, sir,” is little more than an instinct but it’s out there and it seals it, not a promise but an oath. He’s gone as quick as he appeared and you’re alone again, nothing but you and the wind that blows north at too many miles per hour. The wind whips right around Purity’s shaggy hair and he’s still sweating, but it doesn’t mean a damn thing and you don’t want to taste it. You don’t want and you don’t feel guilt, and he’s just fourteen, a little bitch who’s never inside in time to leave, because you’re all leaving. You’re leaving and he’s been out here raking leaves since the first rays of sunlight burst right through the little gaps in the trees, and you can’t figure him out for all the forgiveness in the world. You remember now, remember that you came out here to get him, but you know better than you did before in that you never needed to bother, because you could never make him come, not even if you tried.

You can’t make him come to you and it doesn’t matter. He’s half a man and he’ll come on his own. You don’t know if it’ll be next year or the one after that, but he will come and that you do know. You know it better than you know the shades of red and brown upon the ground on which he walks, better than you know the shades of guilt and shame that Daddy paints with his eyes when he glances your way from the broken window. No, you don’t know the how or the where or the why or even really the when, but you do know the what, and the what is that he’ll come to you, as sure as autumn leaves do fall.


End file.
